Maka's Nightmares
by tsuritamaa
Summary: The sky was threaded with madness; Soul couldn't blame Maka for letting it get to her.


"_Soul!" _He awoke to frantic and terrified screams of his name, eyes peeling open at the blatant deprivation straining his ears in sharp stabs. Soul Eater sucked in a tremble of a breath once the sounds truly broke through his walls. "_Soul!" _His heart rolled into a pattern of violent shakes at his meister's reiteration, mind swift yet undependable as he scrambled onto unsteady feet. He had been a mere two steps from the door when he felt a shock through his body—a reminder of what may be waiting for him. Unintentionally, Soul found a rush of images pass through his mind, causing his heart to race faster. The sight of the kishin, Asura, looming over Maka like his madness itself, cruel maw seething as it begged for her soul as though she were an image of the human he once was. To top it off, the blood-red sky would serve as a backdrop to the scene, something that spoke of terrible perfection. Perhaps it would only be fueled by Soul stepping in, a scythe without a wielder who hadn't the ability to fight on his own. Soul knew that, yet his own danger seemed to step behind Maka's and without further hesitation, he twisted the cool metal before stepping through.

Yet, upon entrance to Maka's room, Soul found that there were no bone-chilling sights before him. No kishin staring at him with crazed eyes; no demon with curled fingers that threatened to reap her soul. However, what he did find was more heartbreaking than immobilizing—the shaking form of his best friend, highlighted by the impossibly red sky as she screamed his name. The sounds clawed at his ears.

"Maka?" he asked voice hesitant and feather-like in comfort, but a rock in exhaustion. Taking another step forward and repeating her name as though it were his lure, Soul stood by her bed. The unsettling sight grew stronger as her gaze moved upward. Perhaps it was the heavy beat of her breath that washed his ears like a flood. His eyebrows pulled together and his hands fell flatly at his sides. Worry began to drip into the empty spaces melted fear had left behind.

Slowly, Maka's eyes opened and Soul allowed his to flit over the light green of hers. There was a certain waning fear that dripped from them, not only in the small shine of tears in her eyes, but also the sinking of her gaze. Soul stood for a moment, as though he could see the gentle lap of waves in her eyes as they eroded the fear, then he let his fingers slide over the soft blanket before taking a seat next to her. His mother had done this to him when he was plagued with nightmares. She'd sat next to his quivering body and sang to him with hopes that the music would calm him and gently whisk him back to sleep. He was not going to sing to Maka, though. Instead, he bore his deep red eyes on her as she dragged a finger against her cheek. He watched the gleam of the tear as she spoke. "I…I'm sorry for waking you, Soul. I had a bad dream, I guess."

"You don't say," Soul began, voice low as though the softness was necessary for her recovery. "Because, I don't know if you knew this or anything, but the times you're screaming my name in the middle of the night—well, they're far and few between. You're kind of a morning person, really—which is fine with me."

Without so much as a brief hesitation, Soul felt a light slap against his arm, followed by a shaking yet begrudged, "Not cool, Soul." The weakness in her voice was unfamiliar and nearly shocking. Soul was struggling not to think about that.

"I'm tired," the boy mused, his voice holding its usual twang but holding a strand of seriousness that coiled around the situation like that of Medusa's snakes. It was very solemn that Soul Eater treated situations seriously and during the span of a small breath, he wondered if that would only shake Maka more. "You can't expect so much from me when I haven't even gotten a good night's rest." As though for emphasis, the scythe dragged the heel of his hand over his eyes, which were underlined by skin plagued with deep shadows. It was then that his hands dropped down and he passed a thumb over the other in a haunting silence. Waiting for Maka's next word, Soul glanced as though searching for what he lacked, only to see a distant gaze glassing over his friend. Soul supposed that everyone was worried about the kishin now, even he, who tended to be confident and impervious to daily fears, found himself dwelling over strange possibilities now and again, but he didn't want that from Maka right now. What he wanted was some sort of composed gaze that would allow him to return back to his bed before sunrise. Not that there was much sun shining through the thick red. "What was your dream about, Maka?"

Had he limited care for the girl, he would have swallowed the thin, "Just about the kishin," as a proper response that prompted understanding. He supposed in a way, it did. Maka's reaction to the last failure of the academy spoke of fear and burden, which Soul could understand. On top of that, she was consumed with worries of Crona's future, as well as hers, and the many people she had grown to love. It must be tough to find so much importance in so many people.

"You really think that's enough?" he questioned, reaching out to settle his hand upon hers. There was solemn much that could catch Maka's whole, undivided attention with all that ruled her, but Soul's touch was one of those few things. Allowing his eyes to settle on the window, Soul pushed his shoulders up and continued. "You're not afraid of the kishin, Maka. Not like that. And certainly not enough to be screaming for me in the middle of the night like that."

With that hanging in the air above them, a heavy silence swept over the two with an uncomforting scratch against Soul's skin. Maka's hand had tightened into a fist underneath his, breath hooked as though she were awaiting pressing questions from her partner. Perhaps she held the idea in resentment. Soul, however, did not have the energy to force her into confession and assess her fears, especially not when each moment felt so painfully dire. Madness was consuming Death City, tongue dragging across members of the academy during their slow decent into defeat. All the while, Soul only found himself begging for salvation in his dreams, though his usually were just sheets of black these days. Even so, he yearned for both him and Maka to get suitable amounts of rest in order to be ready tomorrow. They needed to train, needed to learn, and needed to organize the thoughts and actions of everything that loomed over their home. Shaking his head in a sluggish motion, Soul let his eyes fall closed. "You can tell me tomorrow morning, if you're still upset. Get to bed, Maka."

The girl nodded her head slowly, glancing over at him before gently laying her head back down on the pillow. Soul, in turn, got to his feet and allowed his fingers to slide over his soft white hair before gliding toward the hallway. As his arm brushed against the door frame, Maka sounded behind him, "I don't think I can."

A sigh passed through his lips. Soul sounded tired, which he was, as well as worried, which he was but in a slightly distracted and distant sense of the word. Turning around on his heel, he stopped with both feet planted firmly and shoulders sagging slightly with the weight of exhaustion. He retraced his steps, pushed her body gently to make room for himself, and silently slipped into bed beside her. Maka bit down on her lip as Soul pressed a breath against her neck, the warmth crawling over her as he spoke, "They're just dreams, Maka. Nothing's going to happen to you. Or me." It was only then that he settled an arm over her waist and allowed his eyes to close once again, though this time he was giving in to his own selfish want. No resent went toward the fact that he couldn't sleep in his own room, nor did he mind that he was lying down with Maka. The boy was quickly fading, clinging onto the last of his thoughts with a waning grip. The last thing he heard was a rustle as Maka turned and tucked her head under his chin; the last thing he muttered was a half-hearted "You're hopeless, Meister"; the last thing he felt was the heat of her breath against his skin as he faded away.


End file.
